Long Lost Hopes
by Alix the Alien Cyborg
Summary: France has waited for so long, only to lose what was really never his. One-sided Franada, USUK, PruCan, others.


**Fandom: **Axis Powers Hetalia  
><strong>Author: <strong>Alix the Alien Cyborg  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T  
><strong>Pairings: <strong>Franada, PruCan, some USUK and Ameripan, mentions of Spamano.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>yaoi, drinking, cigarettes, angst.

This just…happened.

I have no excuse for this one.

Seriously.

Also, if you have any ideas for a title, don't hesitate to tell me. Really.

**Long Lost Hopes  
><strong>

If you asked any of the other nations, they'd tell you that France had no restraint, no self-control. They would tell you that he was a sex-obsessed, amorous pervert. They'd tell you that once he saw someone even mildly attractive, he'd make it his life mission to get into their pants. He didn't seem to care about gender or age, and that there are some (cough Switzerland cough) who would go to any length to keep innocents (cough Lichtenstein cough) from his lecherous grasp.

They were dead wrong.

France was just as capable of keeping to himself as Japan or China or anyone else. He just rarely had a reason to. In fact, he had only ever met one person whom he had to restrain himself from flirting with.

Canada.

Ever since he'd first met the sweet, pancake-loving boy, France had wanted Canada to be his in every way. Raising him into the even-sweeter man he was today had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done. That creamy skin, those hypnotic violet eyes, and the wavy blond hair so similar to his own just drew him in, and kept all of France's attention on the blond child for decades. He'd spent weeks feeling guilty and awful for every inappropriate thought that crossed his brain.

And one day, he'd looked over and realized suddenly his little Canada had grown up. France had thought _finally_, he'd be able to show the one he loved just how much, and set about preparing for the confession.

Until Prussia entered the equation.

The day Prussia drunkenly confessed his "undying love" for Canada was the day France's life went straight to hell.

Within a week the two were acting like perfect lovebirds, and France swore they'd be married in a year.

He was crushed. France would never steal one of Prussia's boyfriends. They were a part of the "awesome" Bad Touch Trio, after all, and France would never-_could never_-do such a thing to his best friend. Prussia had never done that to him, and he wasn't about to repay him like that. No, France and Prussia were best friends, who stuck it out through all the difficult times and partied through all the ones with alcohol.

Which brings us to where we are now. The Bad Touch Trio, relaxing on a moonlit balcony in the Parisian night.

A wine glass, filled with cheap wine that pretended to be quality in the smoke-filled darkness. An unlit cigarette dangled from long, pale fingers, one slip from falling to the city below.

Despite their height, on the balcony of a tall, tall hotel in the midst of Paris, they were surrounded by the sounds of a city- chattering darlings and tinkling of glasses, mumbled curses and the striking of matches, loud angry music mingling with the heady breaths of a perfume bottle. The dreamers, the druggies, the high-class women and the ladies of the night cavorting with suit-clad businessmen who step between both worlds. All of this drifted towards a trio of men who, no matter how hard they tried, were never going to return to the light, innocent(ish) boys they once were.

Today, France was not in a mood for the giggling of his friends nor the twirling of their (very much so lit) cigarettes, and so he left them sitting their posh chairs near the door, in favor of leaning out and staring at his prize jewel. The so-called "City of Light," as America was fond of referring to it.

Most times when he got like this, they would sense his mood and stand with him, remaining quiet and just letting their eyes drift across which ever city they were hitting that night, lost in their own thoughts (though many would be amazed to find Spain and Prussia were capable of thinking.)

However, Prussia was much too caught up in singing the praises of his precious Canadian, and Spain would fangirl over quite literally anything.

I_ love him, not you,_ France wanted to scream, wanted to write it out in blazing colors across the sky of this city, usually so sparkling but now seeming pathetic to a jaded France. There was adoration in Prussia's voice-oh, yes, France was more than well aware of that. But the albino would never love Canada as strongly as France's heart yearned for his _petit Mathieu._

No matter how hard he tried to block them out, the unusually high pitched voices of his companions pierced his ears, permeating what little peace he conjured.

"He had a curl! Did you know that? I didn't! A little hair curl, and when I pull on it, he does the strangest things!"

"Oh, my little tomato has one of those! How _adorable!_"

'I knew.' France thought bitterly. 'I've known for years. And I know exactly what it does-after all, I was the first person to ever pull on it. You don't know him at all, Prussia. For all your talk of knowing what it's like to be ignored, how you're perfect for him, you're just as bad as all the others. You don't know a thing about him.'

"I do know, though, that when I pull it, he does whatever I want!"

"Oooh, _really_?"

"Yeah, it means I always get to top-"

The wine glass shattered.

France's hands shook. Dark red stained his fingertips and shoes, and he could pretend he heard the clatter as broken shards crushed to powder, far below in the Parisian night, the unlit cigarette joining them moments later. Spain and Prussia were shocked into silence, staring at France, who was breathing heavily.

"I'm going to visit England." He stated shortly, keeping his words clipped. It kind of scared them-France _never_ clipped his words, preferring to draw them out with dramatic flairs and over-done twirls accenting each syllable. Their eyes drifted to his hands, but he seemed not to notice that wine wasn't the only reason his skin was dyed red.

Prussia and Spain didn't speak as France strode through the door into the hotel, didn't ask why he wanted to go to England. They just watched quietly as the third piece of their breaking Trio walked out the door.

/

England hadn't had a good night's sleep in months.

Two and three-quarter months, to be precise.

Eleven weeks since America and Japan had shown up at his door.

Seventy-seven days since they'd broken his heart.

Currently, he sat on his distressed couch, quilts strewn across the unclean carpet and alcohol stains blending in with the dilapidated atmosphere. Whiskey swirled in his glass and he downed the stinging liquid, hardly noticing the burn after three months of shots. Three months. Yes, three months since that event...

He could remember it quite clearly, the incessant ringing of the doorbell (America, assumedly), followed by an absolute lack of sound (fighting over how to best announce their presence, he now knew), and finally, a single, polite ding (Japan's work, England would later realize).

England had opened the door, bedraggled and tired, expecting to find his annoying (adorable) ex-colony.

He wasn't expecting to find a dark-haired Asian nervously hovering beside him.

"Yo, Iggy!" America yelled, barging in without invite, per usual. England sighed-he knew he'd have a migraine by the time this visit was over, but he'd deal with it for America. He'd deal with a lot of things for America.

He smiled at Japan. "You may enter, if you'd like." England opened the door a little wider. Japan nodded his head in thanks and stepped inside.

England had pulled America from the kitchen and asked why they were there. He didn't expect the answer he received.

They were there to "inform England-san of a progression in our rela-" as Japan began to say, once settled in the living room, before America cut him off with:

"England! We're having sex!"

This resulted in two very flustered (and one very heartbroken) island nations.

America then attempted to prove this point right on England's couch, much to Japan's chagrin. It only managed to increase both England's headache and the tears that threatened to sting at the back of his eyes. Eventually, they managed to remove America from England's house and lock him in Japan's car. England didn't feel the slightest bit bad about it-he deserved it, for making the elder go through this!

"I am so, so sorry, England-san. Please, forgive me. I did not intend for the visit to go this way."

England had only laughed, pulling out the "play it cool" card he was so fond of using to cover his emotions. "You forget I raised the lad, Japan. I've dealt with his crazy antics for years."

Japan had thanked him for his uncharacteristic kindness before quickly leaving. America had turned on the car radio and begun singing along. Very, very loudly.

Closing the door, England had slid to the floor and sobbed.

The country in question was recalled from his reverie by the sound of harsh tapping on the door. It was unfamiliar to him-not the flamboyant taps of France (how he managed to make knocking on a door flamboyant, England would never know), nor the overly-hyper bangs of a certain American (not that those came around often, these days.) The knocks sounded slow, quiet, melancholy...almost, depressed? England shook away the thought-he was over-analyzing what was nothing more than a simple knock. It was probably just America's brother, Canodo or whatever he was called.

England dragged his feet to the doorway, swung open the wood...and found France.

Instantly, England launched into the usual barrage of insults.

"France, you bloody wanker! Why're you here? You perverted frog, get out of my house!" He waited for the customary lewd smirk and return volley from his sparring partner. Instead, he received a tired sigh and a simple quiet phrase,

"Can I come in?"

England had no idea how to react to that. He was completely blown out of the water by a short sentence. For the first time in a long while, he stopped and looked-_really looked_-at France. He was shaken by the sight that greeted him.

France's clothes hung limp and dirty. His eyes were dark with depression and his hair-my God, his hair.

The silky blond locks that were once France's pride and joy now were matted with dirt and sweat. He looked as though he hadn't taken a shower in days.

He looked tired, so, so tired.

He looked like England.

And it was that that made the shorter country open the door wider-_just like he had for Japan, that day_-to let him in instead of slamming the door in his face, like he'd wanted.

"I need a drink." France whispered, walking up to a window and leaning on the frame, eyes dark and unfathomable as they stared across England's wilting garden.

England hesitated, so unaccustomed to this side of the man and unsure of how to react. "I don't have any wine…"

"Doesn't matter, as long as it's strong." For the second time that day, England was startled. He could easily remember the countless arguments with-well, _anyone_ when they wouldn't provide the blond with the finest wines.

England pulled out his bottle of whiskey (he hid them all over his house for whenever America was featuring too prominently in his thoughts). Rightly assuming France didn't need a glass, he passed it to the other blond, who took a swig.

Keeping a tight grip on the bottle, France began to wander about England's living room. England followed with a watchful eye.

The room wasn't anything like France remembered from his countless visits. The same old furniture and stitching samplers were there, in all the same places, but the room lacked spirit. Things were dustier, and the throwaway arrangement of the cushions on the usually well-kempt chairs spelled disaster to France's observant gaze.

He stopped at the fireplace, peering at the mantle. Every picture but one was facedown, blocked from sight. The "one" in question was, curiously enough, a seemingly candid shot of America and Japan. Japan was facing the camera, blushing his pale cheeks right off. America had his head turned to the side, planting a kiss on Japan-assumedly the cause of the blush.

France slowly but surely began to flip up all of the other pictures. He felt England stiffen beside him, but the sandier blond didn't protest.

Something about the atmosphere, the aura of the people in the room, prevented them from speaking, as though the countries were glass that could shatter with the slightest provocation.

They turned out to be pictures of America and England. A few had France and Canada, and another had Denmark and Norway. One more had Sealand, Finland and Sweden, but none of them had Japan, which France found a little odd-after all, at one point, the sandier blond was good friends with both England and America.

Silently, he turned to England, and wasn't surprised to see tears streaming down the other's face. There was a reason those pictures had been covered. They were images of better times, happier days that England didn't want to think about. The picture of America and Japan was there to remind him that _America was his no longer_, to keep thoughts of America in England's arms from straying into his mind.

France processed all of it, and realization dawned, dancing into his mind like color onto a canvas.

"You love him." Although France had promised himself over and over on the trip here that he _would not cry _he couldn't stop tears from forming at all this lost love. It reminded him painfully of his own situation.

England nodded, but it turned to head shaking as he fell onto the couch and increased in fervor until he was a mess of flying golden hair and salty water droplets. "N-no, I don't, I can't love him, I can't-I can't…"

Tears were now pouring down in waves, marking the pale cheeks of both blonds.

"I'm sorry, Eng-Arthur. I'm sorry, _Arthur_." France didn't really know what it was he was apologizing for, but somehow it seemed like the right thing to say.

Ignoring his buzzing phone, France gathered England in his arms, and they cried into each other's shoulders.

"You-with Matthew. You...love him?" France nodded, eyes downcast.

England pulled away after only a few minutes, looking anywhere but at France. He coughed and rubbed furiously at his eyes. "I-I love him. I do. I love Alfred."

It was unnecessary to France, almost redundant really after the tears that had just been spilled, but a part of England just needed to say it aloud to another-something he hadn't yet done. It wasn't a confession, but a solidifying; his way of making it real. The actions of these past eleven weeks, however, spoke far louder than those few words.

France merely nodded, looking down at his hands. "Funny how fate turns, isn't it? We waited for centuries, to lose them to our friends. Hopefully with a bit more waiting-"

"I'm sick of waiting." Snapping his head up, England looked France in the eye and held him there. "I'm done with loving him to myself. I'm done pining away for someone I'll never have. But I can't move on, can I? This is all my heart knows. I-I don't know how to love another. I've never tried…never had a reason…I don't _want _to move on. I just want to hold out hope." France smiled in agreement.

"I know what you mean. It's as though loving Matthew was my life for a while. What would I do, should I give that up?" England laughed humorlessly.

"There's a movie, of Alfred's…called the Princess Bride...and at one point, after killing the man who killed his father, one of the characters turns to his friend and goes, 'I have been in the revenge business for so long, I do not know what to do with my life anymore.' Interesting how it seems revenge isn't all it applies to, eh?" France hesitated, as though what he was about to say was uncomfortable on the tongue.

"We could always…" France took England's hand in one of his own, but the other just shook his head and pulled it away.

"I'm not ready for something like that, and I don't think you are either. And anyways…I'm not sure I could ever feel that way towards you. Too much history, too much…we just don't have a connection." Turning his head to face the window, France let out a wistful sigh, because he knew exactly what England meant. He felt it too.

"I know, but I can dream that maybe someday, I'll find someone to love who isn't taken away." Wincing and recognizing the not so subtle hint to Joan of Arc, England curled against the couch. "I'd...best be going. Spain and Prussia are leaving me phone calls…" France made towards the door.

"Wait…" France looked back at the blond, whose eyelids had fluttered shut. "I just want to say…maybe we shouldn't give up hope. Maybe it's not too late, for one of us at least. We have centuries, you know." France smiled, knowing it was just the whiskey talking but willing to be comforted just the same.

Those parting words were part of the reason that, one week later, France showed up on Canada's doorstep.

Prussia answered the door, smiling and alight with a certain afterglow that France knew all too well. Beside him stood Canada, wrapped in the albino's arm and looking much happier than France had ever seen him.

That was all France needed to know it was far, far too late.


End file.
